


Intuition

by roosebolton



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/F, Hannibal Lecter mention is implied, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991), POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/pseuds/roosebolton
Summary: Some people just have a knack for knowing exactly what someone else needs.





	Intuition

Usually I went to her side of the house to think. This time I had the lights out, trying not to think. I didn't try to hide when I heard her open the door. I knew she knew that I was there, even if my car hadn't been in the driveway; she always seemed to know. Women's intuition.

I sat on her off-white couch, back against the right arm of it, knees up, my arms around them, feet planted (no shoes, just socks, no shoes were allowed unless I wanted to pay the cleaning bill). I didn't move even when she quietly came up behind me and laid her soft hands on my shoulders. Her little gestures of comfort always meant a lot to me. Finally, after a minute or two, once our breaths were in sync, she spoke.

"You wouldn't be doing this if something wasn't wrong. Tell me? I'll get you a cup of coffee, or hot chocolate if you'd prefer."

Sometimes her words and manner were harsh, but not tonight. Tonight she was tender. I nodded my head.

"Something warm, I don't care what. Got to get this chill out of me."

I didn't realize until I said it but suddenly I was freezing. She went to the kitchen and soon after, I heard the beeping of the microwave, then the clinking of glass against ceramic mug. She poked her head back in the living room.

"You better come on in the kitchen and drink this, 'cause no matter what's wrong I ain't lettin' you spill it on my clean couch, now."

I really don't think that she would've cared if I had, but she was the kind of woman who sometimes talked just to fill the silence.

Just to fill the silence.

I went to the kitchen, where she waited for me with a big mug of hot chocolate, the instant kind with little marshmallows in it, spoon still in the mug from stirring. I thanked her and took it gratefully. It was warm, maybe not warm enough, but warm anyway, and it made me feel a little better. She motioned to a seat at the kitchen table, and she took the seat next to mine. I sat and sipped for what must have been ten minutes, and when I was done she spoke again. Softly.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong now?"

I pulled my gaze from the bottom of my mug and I looked her in the eyes. I never asked her, later, but I think she knew, even then. Even if none of the rest of those bastards knew, she could see it in my eyes. I was stressed out, a little shaky, and most of all I was haunted. Already. She knew enough.

We stood up at the same time. She took my hands in hers and looked at me questioningly. I closed my eyes, breathed in, breathed out, opened my eyes. I looked into her patient face and smiled, just a little. She turned around and walked into the living room, knowing I would follow behind her without asking me in words. Like I said, women's intuition. It was something she had in spades.

We didn't bother to turn on the lights.

I'd barely gotten a few feet into the room when I felt her hot mouth on mine. This was something that didn't pass between us often, and it was something that was never, ever spoken of outside the house. The boys at the Academy probably assumed it of us anyway, but none of that ever mattered, not to us. We held each other, breaths heaving ragged, tears finally cutting loose and streaming from my eyes. There were no words exchanged as we pulled our clothes off in the welcoming dark, no words as we tumbled to the floor together and she pulled a blanket over us both. Throughout it all, my tears never stopped. But no one could stop that woman when she was determined, as she was then, and every time she kissed my tears away. Her hot, hard mouth trailed down my cheeks, down both clavicles, down my heaving, guilty breasts, my wicked ribs, my silent navel, and when she went further down I had to bite my tongue from sobbing. She was always mysteriously, damnably good at that act and she knew it; would never tell me anything about whether she'd done it before she met me, either. It was fine with me. We both had our secrets. I gritted my teeth, her mouth was always just rough enough to be perfect, and even much later when I hadn't seen her in years, sometimes I remembered the feel of her sweet mouth on me.

Until that day, it would still have been possible to turn back, but I caved into her pressure like I always did. When I bucked, and writhed, and weeped, and cried out _his_ name, I knew it couldn't ever be denied from that point on.

She held me, afterward, the same as ever, but it was clear that something had changed between us. We were never together like that again. But Delia never stopped being there for me.

And she still talked just to fill the silence.


End file.
